


trip the line

by frau_haile



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: not healthy and super fucked up, this is a sexually abused kid that thinks he fell in love, with an old man that resembles someone who used to care for him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 19:14:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14315337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frau_haile/pseuds/frau_haile
Summary: When Morty C-137 gets kidnapped, a Rickless Morty wounds up helping Rick find his missing grandson.





	trip the line

 

PROLOGUE

 

He’s wrapped in my lab coat. I’ll bury him in it. Morty deserves it. Morty deserves so much more.

Morty Town whizzes by, old concrete, indigo skies and neon lights, all around us, a rolling dead backdrop to the rustling inside the ship. It's supposed to be an ordinary evening. Somewhere by my feet on the floor, the master copies of Morty’s films tremor on top of empty beer cans, meager light glossing on their covers, and really, I can't look at them. If I look at them one more time I wouldn't know what do with myself. My ribcage already feels like it's in shambles, like something had swelled and swelled and kept going until it exploded right inside me.

There’s something especially haunting about these pictures. Something upsettingly strange _._  Mere paper has silenced him, presenting him as flesh for the sake of flesh in a sickeningly neutral manner: his open, lurid mouth, his glistening eyes and their puffy red rims, every inch of skin, every fold of flesh, every pore of his body. There's a crucial detail to all this that's so horrible, my nerves clam up before I can process it and leaves this sensation of numb, chilling horror, like I just had all my hairs torn out of my skin.

I can’t feel a thing.

Fuck, I can’t feel anything.

I don’t grab for whiskey. My flask is full, sloshing in front of me on the dashboard. Liquid licks against the tin. The ship trembles. I kept driving but I can’t stop thinking, can’t get it out of my head –

The disgusting, clawing anger sends knots balled high up in my throat, doesn’t let my breaths hit deep enough into my lungs, and I feel every fucking thing and nothing at the same time, thinking of those “parties”, these movies, the nights with revolting old men – my shame is so thick it doesn’t let me breathe, Jesus Christ, Jesus fucking Christ –

I glance at my passenger. Immediately, I feel something horrendous and irreversible slash like a blade right through me, and right then and there, the giant concrete wall swallows me over, and I cry. I cry ugly, every single damn tear my old dying body has held back ever since I told myself I didn’t care. I grip the steering wheel so hard I feel something crunch, and then I cave over in my seat, don’t even gulp in some air before I growl out a dry and hollow scream, directly into my chest. My mouth hangs open after it, breathing hard and shallow.

Head on the wheel, I force my eyes shut, making my tears swell hotly inside my lids. I remember him. Just moments ago, I let myself look at him. The barest thought of Morty pained me so badly that my tears forced out and fell. I remember his heavenly brown curls, grading into baby hair like a thin crown around his forehead. His body slumped to the window glass like the kid he still was. His clammy, pale face, awfully young and coldly still, free of any winces or twinges, of anything.

I wish I was never born.

“I’m a monster." And it’s true. I'm a monster. Rick C-137 is a monster.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

EIGHT MONTHS AGO

 

Chapter 1: Max's POV

 

I admit, the boy never wanted to be with me. When he wasn’t vacant, he was sad; when he wasn’t sad, he was miserable; and when he wasn’t miserable, it was because he ceased to be capable of feeling anything at all. He had slipped away from my arms in the same state that I received him – dying little by little in his own pit of hell.

But you would be lying if you told me that I never loved him.

Because I did. I'd fall to his feet for the entirety of his sullen, innocent loveliness. I ached for the cold of his looks, the way his hair turns auburn in the sun, all the hot and precious tears he's shed for me, his very own withered soul. I’d take him all in a heartbeat. I loved him, plain and agonizing, I loved him, oh God, I did.

From the very first time – at a viewing party, somewhere, on an alien island, among many unfortunate beings like him. Where the lights are soft and blue and purple, the chandeliers are as grand as the stars, and the carpeted floors mask my steps toward oblivion.

There, on a burgundy velvet chaise, draped over the single armrest, naked and shimmering with jewels, laid the sum of all my shame.

Let me put it this way: he was severely beautiful. His body was slight and small, his brows, thin and exquisite. His hair: brown, gentle curls; his skin: blurred ivory, and among all these delicate features was a fragility, a tenderness, something profoundly unhappy, when his eyes flutter close, like a prayer to a god that doesn’t hear a word.

He blinded me, set every inch of me on fire. Yes, yes, he did. He was a dose of sickness to an already sick old man, but above that and everything, he was love at first sight. At last sight. At ever and ever sight.

My breath staggered. My guise - an elegantly tall, silk-haired elfen authority - buckled at seeing him; he was lying there with all the natural curves of his limbs, wearing nothing but jewels.

Imitation ones, but despite being imitations, in the glowy hue of purple-blue lights, they were as good as the real thing. Clear diamond-droplet crystals, with a tinge of cloudiness that wrapped him in the hazy quality of angelic purity.

This is all he wore, in the order of which I feasted my eyes upon: a choker on his delicate neck (that was put on so alluringly tight I drew my knees together), strings of crystals that softly dazzled over his stomach and arms, twinkling anklets (that were halos to his soft-skinned feet), and to bring it all together, to utterly bewitch me, was a pungent pang of detail: two singular crystals pierced to his nipples, their metal circlets letting them roll about on his supple chest.

Like all the poor pets in the party, he was drugged. He didn't seem to know what was going on. He couldn't move very well. His mouth was open, breathing difficult. His gaze was unfocused, but this did nothing to obscure the quality of his eyes, which at once arrested me for eternity - they were a cool, deep green, chilling me to the most innermost core of my being.

He was only fifteen.

If you can forgive me, I cannot begin to describe the ferocity that took over my flesh the moment I saw him. At once the boy had seized me, snatched my panting, lusting heart in his lovely hand. Or at least I liked to believe he had. It was the only way I could survive the swirling state of madness he drove me into - I had to believe that I wasn’t alone in this insanity, that I had no choice in this crime; instead, it was my prey that willingly crawled into my arms.

But I knew, in the droning black deepness of my soul, I was alone. Standing in the shadows with sweat staining my back, my armpits, down my thighs, tongue lopping out, a lecherous beast. It was just me who was wretched, wretchedly leering at a boy that was a version of my grandson, my flesh and blood.

Yet I didn't care. The hot, wet, raving pit below my stomach made me weak. A similar damning brew was happening in my head. That boy was driving me mad, and I was in love; the only kind of love that has a speck of reality in this pointless painful existence.

I was horribly, terribly in love. Nose in the pavement, knife in my chest. In-love.

Of course, I had to have him! I had to or I'll go mad.

And I did. For a while. For that night, I did.

Maybe in poetry, what I'm about to do could be written off as tragic beauty. In the angle of art lies the the only salvation of a perverse man.

I paid for a room upstairs. Before handing him to me, they undressed him of all the jewels, except for the two twin piercings. Without the adornments, he looked more like a real boy.

They shot him so full of aphrodisiac (some aggressive alien one) that he wouldn't let go of my arm. He needed human contact. Any contact. His skin burned to the touch (a fever that would've sent a mother to hysterics) and was wet with sweat. He stumbled over both our feet. He was calling me, "Master, master,” in the alien dialect of this planet, foreign and enchanting, like watching a ballerina tether deathly quiet on their  _en pointe_  pirouette. It made me want to slug him to the hallway floor and take him right then and there.

In the room, I slammed the door shut. My beautiful little boy, my grandson in another universe, only fifteen. Fifteen, fifteen, and not a part of me gave a damn.

The drugs made him so eager that the moment we were alone, he couldn't wait for the bed. I couldn't wait for the bed either. So it was there on the luxurious carpeted floor that I laid him.

He could barely say a word, that's how done-in he was. He was sweating the drugs. I could smell his honey-sour odor. The blood in his head was more drugs than blood.

He hit the carpet, and I drew back to stare. Oh God, oh God. He was so blisteringly perfect it was almost seraphic. His immaculate hands were grabbing at my robe, slurring foreign petitions (that alien tongue will follow me wherever I go, good Lord). He writhed and writhed and writhed. For all I know he could be in extreme pain, burning away with unattended, unwanted need. It hurt him more that I wasn't claiming him, than if I was. He wanted it to be over, the beautiful thing. He was writhing so badly from drug-induced torture he looked like he’d rather I kill him.

I couldn't even be bothered to haul him up to the bed. I took off my gloves and disrobed quickly. I held my fully-erect hardness - never been this hard in all my life - dug my hand into his salivating mouth like it was a finger bowl and slathered his spit around me. Carelessly, I swung one pretty leg over my shoulder and pinned the other one down to the floor, spreading him until his hip could spread no more.

And then he was mine.

His cries, his sweat, his tensed neck as he threw back his head, and the blood – bright crimson, streaking the inside of his thighs – it didn’t matter, because I was in heaven. I was in paradise. On his chest, the two piercings tinkled like a pair of unshed tears.

It was only when I got back to my home in the Citadel that I realized my mistake.

 

 

The dazzling show of my imagination came to a close. The shades were pulled, the curtains drawn, the lights were back and bright, and there in my bed was a frightened, faded whore, a year's worth of being carted off around the multiverse to be abused by aliens showing in his guardedness, his turned back, his trembling shoulders. He clearly despised me, wanted nothing to do with me. Without the aphrodisiacs clouding his brain, there was nothing he needed from me. My illusion is stripped naked in front of me to swallow.

But I didn’t swallow.

Because glowing from beneath, he was still Morty, the Morty of that night, covered in nothing but jewels, the one who seized my horrible heart with his blameless hands. Still the cold beauty, the small and slender form, the cutting green eyes I can’t look into without shuddering, the heartless angel-prince that drove me insane.

All logic tells me to give him away. Here is nothing but a ruined slut. Useless chasing down something that was never there. Stamp a dimension number on him, make him part of the system, and let him go.

But I couldn’t let him go.

I loved him already, in some sick, twisted way. Behind this face was the child my soul was aching for. The thought of separating from him left a gaping hungry hole in my chest.

I approached the bed. My knee dipped into the mattress. At once, the air was concrete and dropped ten degrees cold. From two feet away, I felt every muscle in his body tense in. Yet, surprisingly, when I touched his arm, held it, and brought him under me, he barely resisted - or knew well not to.

He looked up at me. In those eyes was all the hatred in the world. It was a glare so vicious it sent a trickle up my spine.

“I hate you.” He said. “Don’t do this to me. I hate you.”

His voice tugged and played at the most carnal strings of my being. A peculiarly calm voice, that one. I held him harder. I felt resistance at the palms of my hands, and he suddenly no longer looks as vicious. He wilted away like a flower in a cellar. He’s afraid now, and something is playing dimly behind his eyes, swimming under the depth; some lost fit of anger, only a dark memory, chased away by a multiverse worth of terrible things he’s seen before me.

“No, no,” he said. He sounds like a Morty now, whiny and bitching. “Please, n-no,” Ah, a stutter! He weakly kicks at me, but I have both his wrists in one hand and my other is picking up his leg, drawing his hips closer.

The illusion continues to trickle away, but I can't help it. I don't care if I have to force it, I needed to see him, my Morty, my everlasting agony.

“No!” He screams. “No, please no!”

As I’m undoing my robes, he struggles hard enough to get out of my grip. He flumps out of my bed, lands on his side on the floor, and is about to take the first step up again when I grab him by the hair. Don’t fucking get away from me. I haul him back up, give him a solid punch in the stomach, and while he feels that I flip him over, force his back to curve in, I tug his head up – “Breathe!” I bellow, before I dig his face into the pillow. I enter him in one rough slide. From him comes a choked, muffled sound.

“Now, you agree to be my good little bitch and I’ll let you breathe. Until then.”

He cries just as pointlessly as before. I push his head in harder, the cry rises. It keeps rising as I start to move.

A minute. Two minutes. Morty’s screams sound like a tortured animal. One of his hands come up to weakly, softly, caress my own, the one I’m using to keep his head down, and this gently pious act utterly wrecked the deepest foundation of my disgustingness, and it was over.

My little boy can barely move from lack of oxygen. I release him, and his entire body goes in a fright as he gulps in the air greedily. His eyes are bloodshot, the pillow under his face stained with sweat and tears. He lies there below me, swimming, half-dead, a slobbering mess.

“What do we say?” I gently remind him.

“I-I’m, g-gonna, be your g-good little bitch,” he whines between heavy sobs. His face is red from crying and the air I denied him, covered with snot and sweating from sheer exertion, and there I see, the Morty from that night, the Morty that I claimed, this Morty, my Morty, pliant and serving, totally powerless, rising like a breath of fairy dust from under this sour reality.

My heart goes tender. I’m weak, he makes me weak. I slip out of him, semen and blood dribbling down his thighs, and gather him in my arms. He trembles.

He doesn’t hug back.

 

 

As days go by, he slowly drifts away from me. There’s something dangerously alluring about it, like approaching live wire with wet hands. He’s his own being. He would glare at me with the most distasteful of scowls. No trembling, no crying fits, I tell you. Not even when I force myself on him. Nothing. He’ll willingly comply, limply, not sparing me a glance, and when I would enter him he’d make no sound, all the way until I finished. It was just like making love to a corpse.

When I pull out of him, he turns away and lies on his side, drawing the sheets over him.

Now I wasn’t totally cruel. A few days into bringing him home, Morty developed an unusually high fever. His vision spun, he couldn’t speak, couldn’t eat, and any sort of smell made him retch. As soon as I could, I called a physician to see what the problem was; I discovered Morty had half a dozen kinds of sexually transmitted ailments, all he’s gathered from being transferred around from owner to owner before he landed on that viewing party. They were being kept at bay so far by the host while he had him, but now I’ll have to start medicating him myself.

No problem at all. I purchased the medicine for what could be cured and the maintenance for what couldn’t, no matter how expensive. All in all, it was injections every few days, pills every twelve hours (one at the morning, one at night), fruits and lots of water. I took care of him, I did. I clothed him, washed him, gave him all the comforts I could allow. You can’t say I was completely horrible.

But I knew I was losing him. Losing him quick. Pretty soon I’ll need him again, the weak child under this veil of coldness, and that day came: I arrive home with the strongest aphrodisiac I could find from a local drug dealer (but not nearly as strong as the alien one from the first time – I learned that it was harvested from a planet that got ransacked by bandits, and the kind was no more), and since it came in a capsule, I mixed it among Morty’s prescription pills.

I can tell you the exact moment he noticed the effect coming in, because halfway through dinner, he dropped his spoon on the polished mahogany wood, heaved a keen breath, and from across the table, gave me a look of pure terror.

Of course, that night was a night for the gods.

“Don’t do that again,” he said to me, after I’ve enjoyed him thrice. His voice was nothing but a whisper. “Please don’t do that again.”

I pressed my lips to the crown of hair just above his forehead. I said nothing.

 

 

Something like Morty should be preserved forever, so I decided, two months into having him, that I’d like to see him on the screen.

I brought Morty to a Rick downtown who owned a studio of the kind I needed. As he was immortalized, I made sure he was drugged beyond any recollection of what I’ve done. I brought him to this studio many times. A neat little collection piled up inside my cabinet.

It still wasn’t enough. I brought him to many underground parties, where I led him away with many other men like me. It was exhilarating to watch something that’s yours be taken in front of you. Morty was drugged the entire time, pliant to every which way he was wrung into.

This entire ordeal would last three whole months. I made sure that was his state: drugged out of his mind. I’ve stopped disguising them into his food, or even as part of his medication. He wouldn't even ask what these mysteriously important pills are that I was pushing at him; at that point, he’d swallow anything I’d put under his nose.

Once, however, I think I gave him two pills instead of the usual four, which put him in the right enough mind to comment on the following night.

Now in bed, he was pushing away my wrist. “Stop it,” he weakly said. “I d-don’t want it.”

“No?”

He shook his head, lips pressed thinly together.

I frowned at him. “You know, this makes it hurt less.”

The fact that I said this so casually made the boy purse his lips tighter, and he began crying. “I still don’t want it.” At this point, he glanced up at me, his eyes lustrous with tears, the rims pink. I met this begging look with indifference. What a drag.

I sighed, shoulders falling. “I’m trying to make this easier for you.”

He crumpled at hearing this. He gave into tears, not trying to hide it this time. Now, I liked it when he cried, I thought he was pretty when he did it, but this was just annoying.

“I don’t want to do this a-anym-more,” he weakly pleaded. I fought the urge to stuff my fist in his mouth to shut him up.

“We’ve talked about this,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. I dropped the pills down on the bedside table. “You know I hate it when you whine like that. I’ll gag you if you keep this up.”

A shock of fear cast over his face like a dark cloud. “N-no, please.”

“Good. Now behave and lie down.”

He followed, scared beyond anything. It’s the first time in a long time he’s been scared like this in bed. He was only half-sober, but it was enough to gauge the horror of his situation. No longer calm, he was sweating and shaking and his hands, under my touch, were icy. He's still looking at me with desperation, childishly hoping I wouldn't do it. With every movement I made on him, he squirmed and tried to resist. But it wasn’t enough to stop me. Briefly, I saw him cast under my oilspill shadow, and then I dove into him - not this Morty, but a boy-whore I created in my own head.

“You wanted this.” The wet slap of skin on skin, his muffled painful cries, and rustling of sheets accompanied my words. “You don’t want those pills? You don’t want them? You want to feel  _this_ – “ I rutted into him harshly, – “instead? Fine! You asked for it!” And from there I had at him so violently the boy couldn’t even scream anymore; his mouth merely hung open, every muscle of his jaw tense, not knowing how to convey his distress into a sound they were capable of making.

In the end, Morty regretted it. He curled up to himself and quietly sobbed himself to sleep.

After that, in the months to come, he willingly swallowed whatever I dropped on his tongue.

 

 

I don’t know what’s happening with me. An overwhelming sensation is crawling around my chest and I can’t name it.

When did it begin? Why? I'm not so certain, but slowly, this shattered shadow seemed to lull me, as if he were the last gentle, drunk song in a party that’s almost over. There’s something alarming now, in the way his gaze falls down to his lap, the way he sighs when he swallows his pills, hell, in the way the first wave of tears glaze over his eyes. Every step he takes towards me, the way he succumbs underneath me in bed, haunts me. I feel myself sliding off the edge when I set my eyes on him, so cold and broken and beautiful, and not seconds after, I condemn myself to looking away.

I’m going mad, and not in the way Morty had done. This madness is all me.

I set the drugs aside for three days.

He was losing his nerve, of course. Extreme amplification of the senses is a temporary side effect to suddenly stopping the dosage. Tonight, Morty is sweating buckets. I’m about to have my fill of him, pinning him underneath me, when Morty starts, “W-wait,” I ignored this, grabbing him by the sides and turning him over, “Wait, wait!” and Morty wrenches away from my hold, and I’m just about ready to hit him and repeat our first night in this bed together, but he didn’t try to get away, no; he just settled himself awkwardly in front of me.

“You forgot the pills,” he mumbles. “Can I have them?”

I chuckled at this. “Forgot? I’m not giving you any.”

Whatever sort of color that was on his face at once drained away. “You can’t, n-no – “

“Get on your knees before I forget to be gentle.”

But he didn’t. Instead, he jams a hand under the pillow, withdraws his closed fist, and immediately put this against his open mouth. There was the unmistakable sound of pills clacking with teeth, but before he can even think of swallowing, I have his neck between my hands and the boy is underneath me, his upper body digging into the bed as I press down with all my weight at his throat.

He wheezes, coughs, claws at my hands. I’m gripping him so hard, if I don’t stop I might actually choke him to death.

And he’ll want that, wouldn’t he.

The four pills he attempted to swallow now swirl around his slick tongue. I shove a hand in his mouth and pluck them out, throwing them away. We hear four little fatal clicks. I let him go, he convulses with his first inhale, and then I whack him across the face. Then another whack. My hand makes a lovely red mark on his cheek.

“P-Please drug me!” he keeps crying as I force him into position, “I don’t want to feel it! Drug me,  _drug me_ , please! Give me just one, just one – ”

“God dammit, shut the fuck up.”

I don’t know why I’m acting like this. Strange, how I’m suddenly rougher than I intended. Maybe because I’m starting realize the part I want from him is a part that only exists because I wanted it to, not because it really existed ( _this version_  of Morty is the only Morty that exists) and the harder I try to get at it, the farther it slips away.

I’m inside him but all my thrusts feel blunt, lukewarm, and I don’t feel the least bit satisfied. I’ve been thrusting into him for a full thirty minutes with no joy.

At that point, out of a final bout of frustration, I twist the boy onto his back again and ride up his lower half so all his weight rests on his shoulder blades, and when I look at his face I realize, with a small ember of despair, that he looks exactly like the first time I fucked him, a sweet illusion in that alien hotel room, crying and helpless, but at the same time - he was also the broken victim that I wanted to tear apart, and yet I  _loved_  him, this, all the same – he was both, and all, and everything; my passion, my death, my Dolores, blurry with beauty and sadness, but my heart weeps, because I know that all the horrible things I'm capable of will never make him mine, never, in all the weary days of my pathetic life.

I pick up my pace and he sharply inhales through his nose. Fucking hell. My hand slaps him again with such force that the kid yelps. I stop thrusting, pushed myself impossibly deeper, and settled. I could feel him squeezing around me in panic.

“Tell me you love me!”

He stared at me, stunned by the bizarre request, until I strike him in the face again. “Tell me you love me!”

“I-I,” he hesitates, and this syllable crumples into another fit of tears.

_“Say it!”_

“I love you!” He cries, vocal chords raw.

I pick up my pace again, grueling and all too much for the both of us. “Louder!”

“I  _love you!_ ” He screams. The desperate ring of it sends me to ecstasies. “I love you, I love you,” in hushed gasps, as I force myself into him harder, until everything is a glare of pain for him and mounds and mounds of pleasure for me. “I love you.” He kept saying it until I finished, until I fell down beside him, still kept mumbling that pretty lie as I panted and sleepily pulled him against my chest.

"I love you." He says across my collarbone. My fingermarks are a deep sore purple on his delicate neck.

And he kept mumbling it, like a song, like a machine.  _I love you I love you I love you I don't want you at all no no no._

Maybe because his situation was far too disturbing to console. Maybe he saw there was no way out, not really, and it was so much easier to play along.

He could run away from me, hide at the ends of the earth, but I will still be there, so deep and painful inside him, in a place that he can never reach far enough to pull me out. No matter where he goes, no matter how much he cries. I'll haunt him forever like a nightmare haunts a child.

And if that's the only way you'll remember me, my angel, then so be it.

 

 

The short of it is that I send him away three times a week to work in some Council-regulated brothel in Morty Town. He comes home the next morning. He's free to do whatever he wants in the time after his work is done and before he comes back to me. He's free, even if that freedom is limited, and really just in a bigger cage. I'll make sure the clients he gets are clean, and that nobody can bring him any harm.

You can't tell me that I never loved him. I did.

I swear to you, I did.


End file.
